Only Night
by Falfaly
Summary: Han's thoughts and memories while trapped in carbonite. Han/Leia. Companion piece to "Day and Night", which can be read before, after, concurrently or never. [This is effectively a new story, as it is a complete re-write of my original version of this. Warnings: language, s]


**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**Companion fic to "Day and Night". Can be read after, before, concurrently - or not.**

**This is practically a complete re-write of the original version of this fic. Now in 3rd person, present and past tense.**

**This fic is snatches of Han's thoughts and memories. I have tried to display this so it doesn't appear as a 5,000-word stream of consciousness, because it isn't.**

**The lines on the page below = double line spacing, as I couldn't get the single line breaks to work. Hopefully, this will make it easier to read - or not.**

* * *

**Only Night**

**by CorellianBlue**

(this version first published 2020)

_Warnings: language, sexual situations_

* * *

There is night. Only night.

He can't see, but he's sure this is night.

But it's more than just darkness.

It is thick. Choking. Crushing.

* * *

The night is pain.

Never-ending, relentless, all-consuming.

He can't recall a time without pain.

Pain and cold.

He thinks the cold is like Hoth…he can't remember what Hoth is.

* * *

He can't move. Can't see. Can't breathe.

The constant, instinctive need to draw breath compounds his agony.

* * *

_Escapemovebreatheremember—_

* * *

He struggles with fear, fighting it, pushing it away before it overwhelms him.

_Stay calm. Don't panic._

Panic leads to madness. And then he'll never escape from _this_.

* * *

_Keep focus. Stay sharp. I can do this._

* * *

If he can remember what _this_ is, he can beat it.

Can't let it win.

Can't _afford_ to let it win.

* * *

Sometimes, he thinks he is dead.

His heart no longer beats, so how can he be alive?

* * *

And sometimes, he thinks there is still life within him, even if he has no pulse.

But at a cellular level, he thinks he is alive—beyond the simple things he can no longer do like breathe…see…move.

* * *

_Alive. I'm alive._

* * *

He instinctively holds on to that belief.

It is the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

* * *

His mind…

It still works.

Sometimes it works.

* * *

He thinks some of his senses are working, unless that's his brain lying to him.

* * *

He can hear wind.

A howling squall engulfs him, relentless, pummeling into him.

On his tongue—a bitter metallic taste.

_Carbonite._

The word circles his mind, aching, throbbing as much as the pain.

_Carbonite carbonite carbonite carbonite carbonite._

He can't remember what _carbonite_ is, only that it means darkness and pain and cold.

* * *

There is no time here. It is a bottomless hole.

It's like he always _has _been here…always _will_ be here.

Trapped forever.

But that makes no sense.

There must have been a time _before_ now.

* * *

He only knows this is night because he remembers day.

Day is light and warmth and movement and…and…

_Leia_…

Her name echoes through his mind, his body, soothing him, calming him.

A spark in the night, in the dark, in the cold and pain.

_Leia..._

Memories and emotions flash past at lightspeed, dizzying in their intensity.

Brushing aside a braided tail of her hair to kiss her neck.

Her deep, brown eyes watching him as he tenderly loves her.

Holding her in his arms.

Kissing her one last time…

Love. And trust. And hope…

And fear.

* * *

He holds tight to the memory of her, struggles as the fear surges through him.

Fear for _her_, not him. Fear for her safety.

Her life.

He's doesn't know what the source of the fear is, only that it exists.

* * *

_Leialeialeialeialeialeia_

* * *

The dark and the terror take hold.

Crush him.

Choke him.

He screams.

Inside his mind, he screams…

* * *

His mind blanks.

And there is nothing.

No screaming. No pain. No cold.

No thought.

He floats in the darkness, numb to everything.

He simply exists.

* * *

He has no concept of how long he is like this.

He is screaming. And then he isn't.

There is a gap. A loss.

An empty space where he can't remember what he's just thought.

It's not sleep. He knows it's not sleep.

It's a lapse into…nothing.

His mind…absent of all conscious thought.

The beginning of the end.

* * *

When he can think again, his mind feels raw. Bloody. Useless.

The night and the pain and the cold return.

He struggles to remember _what this is_.

Why he can't move, can't see, can't breathe.

Draw breath…draw breath…draw breath…

_Stay calm. Don't panic._

_Keep focus. Stay sharp. I can do this._

Ignore the pain, the cold, the dark.

Ignore the lapses.

Ignore it all.

He knows he needs to think beyond _this_ if he wants to survive.

So he thinks of another darkness in the time before this.

Another night.

* * *

Night had fallen.

He lay on his bed, face pressed into the mattress, pillow pulled over his head. His cheeks tight with silent tears that had dried long ago.

Rain thudded against the window, and beneath that he could hear the dull noise of speeder traffic passing by in the night.

He was hungry, confused. Unsure exactly why his father had yelled at him, hauled him by the arm and marched him into his room. For a moment, he'd been afraid his father was going to hit him, swat him across the back of the legs like he had in the living room. But instead he'd been pushed onto his bed, his father putting space between them, so he didn't cause more violence to a four-year-old boy.

His father had stormed back through the door, turned and growled, "You can go to bed hungry. And I don't want to hear you whining to your mother or so help me—"

The threat had been cut off by the shutting door and the audible click of the external locking mechanism being set.

It had been mid-afternoon then. It was dark now.

He must've fallen asleep because he didn't hear the door unlocking and opening, only stirring dozily when the pillow was removed from his head. A hand gently stroked his hair, running down to touch his neck, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge her. She was never here when he needed her; always working; always with her students at the university.

"Han," his mother softly murmured, now rubbing soothing circles across his back.

His resolve crumbled and tears trickled across his face, even though his father would disapprove. _Don't be such a baby,_ he could hear his father telling him.

"Are you hungry, Sweetheart?"

Sniffing, he nodded into the bed covers.

She left his side, his room, headed down the hallway. He heard tense, muffled voices; his parents exchanging brusque words. His mother returned with a sandwich on a plate, cut into triangular quarters the way he liked it, and a chirocco cookie.

"Come on," his mother coaxed. "Sit up."

He did as she asked, moving over so she could take a seat next to him on the bed. She leaned back against the wall and placed a datapad against her angled legs.

"Here. I want to show you something." She flicked on the screen and he tilted over to look at it as he munched on the sandwich—maccanut butter, his favourite. "This is what I do. This is what I teach and study."

On the screen appeared a green-skinned, slender snouted humanoid with large, pupil-less eyes, pointed ears, and two short antennae on its head with a ridge of spines between them.

"This is a Rodian," she told him. "Rodians usually speak Huttese."

He listened as the Rodian precisely spoke ten words, while subtitles appeared underneath with the numbers one to ten in Basic numerals.

"Would you like me to teach you how to speak this?"

He nodded eagerly, desperate to spend any time he could his mother. She was always busy, which meant he spent more time with his father, something he never enjoyed, and usually ended up with him playing with his toy starfighter in his bedroom while his father watched smashball on the vid-screen.

On the datapad display, a massive, muscular slug-like creature replaced the Rodian. Its thick, leathery skin looked wrinkled and slimy, its eyes watery and loose, a rubbery expression on its face. The creature had a wide mouth and it waved its stubby arms. When it spoke, its voice was deep and resonate.

"Han, ma bookie, keel-ee calleya ku kah."

The boy froze. It sounded as if the slug-monster had said his name. Was it trying to talk to him? He had thought his mother was playing him a recording, but maybe this was an open channel.

"Wanta dah moolee-rah. Mon kee chees kreespa Greedo?"

_Greedo?_ The word sounded familiar. For some reason, the boy wondered if the slug knew the Rodian.

"Han, ma kee chee zay."

He'd definitely heard his name again. He glanced up at his mother, hoping she would tell him what the creature was saying and why it appeared to be talking directly to him.

"Han, ma bookie, baldo nee anna dodo da eena."

His name—a third time.

"Ee ya ba ma dookie massa…I'll put a price on your head so big that you won't be able to go near a civilized system."

The slug's booming, sarcastic laughter reverberated in the confines of his room. The boy looked to his mother again, uncertain why he could now understand what the creature was saying, why it had suddenly switched to Basic halfway through its speech. And had it been threatening him?

The display changed again, this time to a tall bipedal creature with shaggy brown hair and deep blue eyes. The boy was again disturbed by the feeling that he knew this alien.

"This is a Wookiee," his mother said. "Wookiee's live on the Mid-Rim world Kashyyyk. Can you say that, Han? Kashyyyk. Ka-shee-kk."

"Kashyyyk," he told her, exactly the way she had pronounced it the first time, a bit annoyed with her for sounding out the word for him as if he was a little kid.

The hairy creature—the Wookiee—growled from the screen. This time, the boy was not at all surprised that he knew exactly what the Wookiee had said: it was a welcome, a greeting. He tried to reproduce the guttural snarl, but his voice did not have the depth or range. Still, he smiled at his effort and turned to his mother to see her reaction.

His face fell when he saw the thin, grim line of her lips.

"Do you understand why your father got upset?" his mother asked.

He shook his head, dreading her answer.

"You broke the hyperdrive, Han."

_Hyperdrive?_

He hadn't. He knew he hadn't. It had just stopped working.

"It's not my fault," he protested.

"You broke the hyperdrive, and now Vader has the Princess and Chewie." His mother looked at him sternly. "That's your fault, Han. They're going to die because of you. Vader is going to kill Leia and Chewie and it's _your_ fault."

* * *

_Vader…_

* * *

They softened him up first; two stormtroopers held him under his armpits as another two sharply jabbed their armoured fists into his stomach and ribs. He'd had worse beatings before, and the muted attack only made him wonder what the second act would be. He didn't have to wait long.

They strapped him upright onto a platform that was attached to what looked like a scan grid and then stood to one side, awaiting further direction.

He looked down into the apparatus, now devoid of any interest as to what was about to happen. This was going to hurt; they were going to ask him questions about the Rebellion, and it was going to fucking hurt.

Then Vader—the fucking Sith Lord incarnate—stalked into the detention cell. He glared at Vader's impassive helmet, desperate to mask his fear with defiance.

_I can do this._

The troopers powered on the grid and the platform lowered him towards it. He gasped as bursts of low voltage electrical currents fired into his body, but it didn't seem too bad.

_I can do this. I can do this. I can do this._

His muscles contracted sharply, released, contracted, released. He twitched, winced and struggled against the restraints. The pain was there and real, but it wasn't as bad as he had feared. He could do this.

_IcandothisIcandothisIcandothis—_

And then he was on fire.

He screamed.

Contract. Release. Contract. Release.

He lost all sense of where he was, _who_ he was.

There was just agony. Agony searing him, scorching him.

Spasms contorting his body, inhuman cries roaring from his throat.

And then it stopped. He'd blacked out. Or the grid had powered down. He didn't know which.

His body continued convulsing and writhing with the after-effects of the torture. They didn't ask him any questions, only checked his vital signs to make sure he was still alive, still able to be tortured.

And then it started again.

_Nononono—_

Contract. Release.

Contract. Release.

He burned. And screamed.

* * *

The jolt away from his memories—his nightmares—is severe and disorientating.

He can't remember what he just thought, where he is, why he can't see, can't breathe, can't move.

He struggles, fighting the intense grip on his body, his mind…

He burns with pain, cold, anguish, grief.

His mind—his whole body—on fire.

All he knows is he has to escape. Now.

He has to escape now!

It's his fault and he has to escape.

Before it's too late.

* * *

Through his sheer panic and the roaring wind, he hears another sound. A voice. A male voice, calmly saying one word. One name.

"Han."

The name means nothing to him, so he ignores the voice. It will only distract him from his need to draw breath…draw breath…draw breath—

_Escapemovebreatheremember_

_Escapemovebreatheremember_

_Escapemovebreatheremember—_

* * *

The nothing returns.

His screams. His thoughts. The pain. The cold.

All gone.

Drifting, existing.

Unresponsive…

* * *

The voice speaks again: "Han. Hear me, Han. Han."

The voice drags him back from the nothing, back into the cold and dark. Back into the pain.

* * *

The urge to scream builds in his mind.

Somehow, he finds the strength—the obstinacy—to beat it back.

_Stay calm. Don't panic._

_Keep focus. Stay sharp._

_I can do this. I can do this. I can this._

* * *

The male voice persists: "Han. Han. Listen to me."

_Stay calm. Don't panic._

_Keep focus. Stay sharp._

_I can do this. I can do this. I can—_

* * *

"Han, stick close to me or you'll get yourself killed."

He trailed after his father through the CEC factory, following the designated walkway. He tried to keep up but was distracted by what was going on around him.

The heat, noise and sparks flying off from the production line were almost overwhelming, but the five-year-old boy was in awe.

This was where his father worked: Corellian Engineering Corporation. On the line for the CEC's reliable light freighter: the YT-1300.

His father had wanted to be a pilot. Many times, voice slurring from too many ales, his father had told him how he had longed to become a pilot.

He was not sure why his father had never achieved this dream, but the boy was determined he would succeed where his father had failed.

His father had promised this visit for his birthday, the only thing he had asked for. A chance to see where his father created the beautiful ships that he longed to fly.

The boy had studied the technical specifications of YT-1300s, savouring the detail as if it was maccanut butter: 34.75 metres long; durasteel hull plating; Girodyne SRB42 sublight engines; Corellian Avatar-10 hyperdrive; Quadex power core; Corellstand C-8 life support system; Microaxial Rubicon navicomputer; Hanx-Wargel SuperFlow IV main computer; boarding ramp; freight elevator; freight loading arms; side-mounted cockpit; front-facing mandibles.

His breath caught in his throat: there it was in front of him. It was more beautiful in life than he could possibly have imagined. And his father _made_ these.

His father looked down at him, a smile turning the corner of his mouth. "You wanna go inside?"

Mouth slightly open, the boy gulped and nodded.

His father took his hand, for the first time he could ever recall. Up the steep angle of boarding ramp into the bright interior; inhaling the showroom-fresh smell of the safety cushions; turn to the right, clacking over polished deckplates; right again at the cockpit access arm.

His father palmed the controls for the cockpit. The hatch slid open and his father dropped the boy's hand as he moved forward. The boy stopped in the hatchway, eyes greedily sucking in the detail.

Immediately in front of him were the navigation and engineering stations, and past that the co-pilot and pilot positions.

The boy knew what the cockpit would look when it was powered up. He imagined the colourful lights blinking at him—red, white and blue; the dials, switches and buttons calling to be flicked and twirled and pushed; the hyperspace levers calling to be thrown back, punching the ship past lightspeed.

His father beckoned him further into the cockpit, and the boy realised he had been holding his breath.

"Come and sit up here," his father told him, patting the back of the pilot's seat.

He did as instructed, slid into the left-hand seat and sank down into the leather of the seat. He was unable to see over the control panel and out through the viewport, but he couldn't resist placing his hands on the control yoke. As his hands wrapped around the cold metal, he felt a connection to the ship.

This was where he was meant to be. It felt so right. Like home.

"You're gonna make it, Han," his father told him. "You're gonna be a pilot."

_The best in the galaxy, _the boy thought to himself, not willing or game to share that boast with his father.

"Just don't fuck up the hyperdrive."

* * *

_Fuck up the hyperdrive…_

* * *

The thump in his temples and the back of his head forced him from the sleep he had drifted into. For a moment, he thought he was lying on the hard deck of the _Falcon_, and he hoped with inane optimism that the headache was the result of too many shots of bad whiskey.

Eyes closed, he listened, desperate to hear the environ systems, the sublight engines, even the long-silent hyperdrive—anything that would confirm his condition was his own stupid fault for getting drunk. But there was only relative silence, save for the deep, fretful breathing of Chewie and an intermittent buzz of a malfunctioning glowpanel.

He knew where they were, what had happened; swallowed down the bile that rose in the back of his throat. He had no idea how long he'd been out, only that a bone-deep ache now wrapped his body in a blanket of lethargy, his extremities numb from the torture. They hadn't even asked him any questions.

_Leia…_

He opened his eyes at the thought of her, ignoring the harsh, bright light that speared into his brain, multiplying the ache in his head. Groggily, he rose on his elbows, groaning with the effort and looked around the cell from his position on the elevated sleeping platform.

Leia was sitting on the floor nearby, her back against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest, eyes closed, chin resting on her knees—holding herself together as tightly as she could. She looked like she was asleep, but knowing her the way he did, he doubted her sleep would be deep.

He forced himself into a seated position, wincing at the stabbing pain in the back of his ribs from where Lando's guards had struck him. He slipped down from the platform, shuffled over to Leia's side and lowered himself to the floor beside her, mildly surprised that she had not reacted to his presence.

Her head snapped up in alarm as he slipped his arm around her shoulders.

"Shh, easy," he whispered.

Her face brightened with relief as she tenderly cupped his cheek.

He gave her a small smile and casually said, "Hi."

Leia returned his smile. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugged, schooling his face so she couldn't detect the discomfort he was in. "A bit stiff, but that's the way you like me, right?"

She indulgently shook her head at him, gestured with a tilt of her chin up towards the bunk. "You should get some rest."

The last thing he wanted was to be any further away from her than he had to. Who knew how much time they had left together. He could see Vader keeping Leia alive to demonstrate the Empire's undeniable power against insurgencies, but he didn't hold much hope for Chewie and himself. The two smugglers were readily expendable. It was remarkable they had been allowed to live this long, hadn't already been terminated; perhaps there was more torture to come.

He slipped his arm down to her waist and snuggled closer to her. "I thought you might be lonely down here."

"I'm fine, Han," she said, though easily detected the wobble in her voice. "Really. I don't need comforting."

He laid his head on her shoulder. She gathered her arms around his back, brushed the hair from his forehead, grazed her lips lovingly across his brow.

He softly said, "Well I do."

Leia held him closer and he allowed exhaustion, and his love for her, to claim him; his breathing slowed and deepened. He was moments from sleep when she briefly disturbed him to gently roll his head from her shoulder and onto her lap. On his side, face turned towards her, he nestled closer, arms wrapped loosely around her waist. His eyes flickered shut again as she pushed her fingers through his hair.

His voice broke as he spoke her name. "Leia." He opened his eyes to find her looking at him with love, trust, hope. "Don't give in," he fiercely whispered. "No matter what happens. Okay?"

When she didn't respond, he touched her arm. "Just for once, will you do what I ask?"

Her lips formed a grim line, nodded in acknowledgement.

"Don't humour me," he softly reprimanded. "Or I'll come back and haunt you."

Leia turned her head from his words, only looking back when he pleaded, "Promise me you won't."

She visibly swallowed. "I promise."

* * *

His consciousness fades back into a thick, oppressive despair.

Too late. It's too late.

They're dead.

Leia and Chewie are dead.

_The princess. You have to take care of her. You hear me, huh?_

_You have to take care of her. Because I've fucked this up._

It's his fault. The failed hyperdrive. Seeking help on Bespin. Trusting the untrustworthy. Ignoring his instincts and putting his faith in hope.

* * *

_Leiaaaa! Leiaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Leiaaaa—_

* * *

"Han!"

The male voice stridently cuts through his screams, his misery.

"Han! Hear me, Han!"

_Luke?_

He remembers Luke.

"Han. Han." It's Luke's voice. Now calm and steady, a maturity from the young man that he has not heard before. But unmistakably Luke.

His confusion is as palpable—as opaque—as the dark.

How can Luke be here with him, when he doesn't know where here is?

"Han, listen to me. Han."

His instinct is to run. Ignore the voice, in case it's only the darkness calling to him, enticing him into madness.

"She's safe, Han. Leia is safe and well."

_The princess. You have to take care of her._

_Leiaaa...Leiaaa—_

"Han, stop. You need to stop. Listen to me. Focus on my voice."

He can't afford to listen. He needs to _escapemovebreatheremember—_

"Leia is safe."

_Leia?_

"Han, Leia is safe. Leia. Is. Safe."

He wants to believe the voice.

_Leia._

"We got away from Bespin. We're coming to get you."

Desperate to grasp hold of anything.

_Leia._

"You need to calm down, Han. You need to save your strength."

_Save your strength. There'll be another time._

"I can help you. But you need t—"

The voice muffles, fades into the distance...

He can't focus. His mind feels heavy, stuffy with too many thoughts, too much pain and cold. Too much darkness.

"Han? Han?"

Luke's voice breaks into his mind again—louder, stronger, clearer.

"Han? Can you—"

And cuts out.

* * *

The void returns. Until…

* * *

_Leia…_

* * *

Once he's started, he can't stop thinking about her.

Everywhere he goes, she seems to be, and if she's not there, then someone mentions her name in passing. He could even recognise the fragrance she wore.

It drove him wild if he went into the Command Centre just after she'd been there, and he could still smell her perfume. More than once, Rieekan had stopped a briefing and waited for his attention to return.

Sometimes, he used to wonder if she was following him or if he was following her.

He felt certain she felt something for him.

Sometimes, he would catch her looking at him—stolen glances—but there was something in her eyes, something he could feel between them.

Sometimes, he suspected he was seeing things that were there.

* * *

_Fuck._

She was wearing his shirt. She'd let him into his cabin, as simple as that, and she was wearing his damn shirt. And possibly his boxer briefs.

_Fuck…_

He loved the _idea_ of her wearing his clothes. Wearing his clothes _after_ they'd fuc—after they'd made love. And it would have been 'making love' with her, not just screwing. Not just sex.

He would love her.

* * *

Her hair was down. She looked beautiful. She _was_ beautiful.

She blushed—embarrassed, angry with him for showing up in just a towel.

_You moron. What the fuck did you expect?_

But she let him into the cabin anyway.

He had to make the most of it.

* * *

_I'll sit here and talk all night with you, beautiful. There's nowhere to hide, nothing to be afraid of._

_You're trembling._

_You like me because I'm a scoundrel._

_There aren't enough scoundrels in your life._

* * *

_Too quick, Solo. You moved too fast._

But…it had been enough for him just to sleep with her. Just to hold her.

_You could use more than a good kiss, Princess._

* * *

He knew someone was behind me. He knew it would be her.

_Leia._

She had been watching him since they had woken up together in each other's arms. Watching him make repairs to the _Falcon_ as best he could, being unable to do much more with the fucked hyperdrive.

He thought—hoped—she had decided…decided that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

_Don't know what you're doing here, huh?_

She did know. They both knew.

_Let me love you, Leia._

Her lips were warm against his. He longed to kiss every part of her. Loved the touch of her fingers in his hair, guiding his head. She tasted sweet, succulent.

She seemed so small beneath him. Delicate. He felt clumsy, too large above her.

_Take it easy with her, Solo. Be gentle._

It was unbelievable to be above her…to be inside her…to be loved by her.

_Fuck._

She tried to match his rhythm. He held her close, eager to give her as much pleasure as she gave to him. She was inexperienced, and yet she knew exactly what to do to turn him on.

_Fuck._

She placed her open mouth against the skin on his throat. Her breath caressed his ear…sighing…moaning…whispering his name...

_Han..._

* * *

Bespin...he had a bad feeling about this place.

"What would you like?" he asked her.

They had just spent nearly four fantastic weeks together on a slow flight to Bespin—fucking the life out of one another—and he had to sour things by dropping back into his old smart-ass routine.

* * *

All he wanted was one last night to love her. Face facts. Make choices.

He knew Leia was all he'd ever wanted. He didn't deserve her, but he wanted her. Needed her.

"Then you're as good as gone," she told him.

He wasn't sure he was. There was time to sort out what he needed to do. It would still take days—weeks—to locate the Fleet. Time to work out how they could work this—them—out…

* * *

_Vader…_

* * *

"He's after someone called Skywalker."

"Luke?"

"And we're the bait."

"You fixed us up real good."

* * *

Leia may have looked fragile, but he knew she wasn't.

He should have been protecting her. But he couldn't even move his damn hands.

He was the only one the stormtroopers had bound. They must have thought he would fight back if he found out what was in store for him.

He focused on the back of Fett's head and kept walking, one foot after the other, desperate to ignore the lethargy in his body, desperate to come up with a plan.

_Think, dammit! Think!_

He considered taking down a few of the troopers with him. Grabbing a rifle. Knocking them off the platform. Going down fighting.

Except if he did that, he didn't know would happen to Leia.

He knew there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

He had to think of her.

She had been quiet since the troopers entered the cell. He wondered what she was thinking. He knew whatever she thought, felt, she wouldn't reveal her hand to them. She wouldn't give them the pleasure.

Lando was there. He wondered if the bastard had come to gloat.

"You're being put into carbon freeze."

_Leia…Don't crack now, sweetheart. Don't show them how you feel. Put that stubborn look on your face and tell them they can fuck themselves._

He tried to smile for her. Wanted to tell her it would be all right. Wanted to tell her so many things.

But he didn't want to hurt her.

_The princess. You have to take care of her. You hear me, huh?_

They instinctively, urgently leaned towards each other, kissed one last time before the troopers dragged him away

"I love you."

He knew. He'd always known.

_Regret nothing, Sweetheart. I've always known._

He couldn't believe he was calmly standing there. This was really going to happen. This was how it ended for him. His luck had run dry.

He wanted to be strong—for her sake. He wanted to make it easy for her. He didn't want to hurt her.

_Better me than her._

He kept looking at her. Focusing on her.

_Leia._

The last thing he would ever see…

* * *

Night. More than darkness.

Cold. Worse than Hoth.

Pain. Everywhere pain.

* * *

He can't move. Can't see. Can't breathe.

Draw breath…draw breath…draw breath…

"Han?"

_Escapemovebreatheremember—_

"Han?"

_Leia…?_

"Don't leave me."

_Leia…?_

"We're coming to get you."

_Leia…_

"Go to sleep now, Han. I'll be here when you wake up."

_Leia…I love you..._

"I know, Han. I love you, too."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**I ADORE HAN SOLO. CAN YOU TELL?**

**If you're interested, some of Han's backstory in this fic is canon.**

**His father is canon. Worked on the YT-1300 production line at the Corellian Engineering Corporation. Wanted to be a pilot. Told Han, one day he would achieve that dream. What happened to him? That bit isn't canon. However, Solo screenwriter Jon Kasdan tweeted the following:**

The scene where Han and Lando discuss their parents was, in part, inspired by Bruce Springsteen's autobiography Born To Run (which I can't recommend enough). Since so many characters in SW are orphans or the product of some great tragedy, we wanted the story of Han's parentage to hint at something more complex and less romantic. His father led a working-class life, full of disappointment, and he had a complicated, difficult relationship with his son. Han eventually ran away from that relationship. I like to think Han's father was still out there somewhere, drinking himself to death.

**Canon also suggests Han's dad either abandoned him or Han ran away - at quite a young age, as he was boosting AV-21s and running scams on the streets of Coronet since he was 10. My head canon is a bit of both. Dad goes on a bender; doesn't return home. Han takes off. Maybe he's placed into a child services facility, but ends up taking off from there as well.**

**Han's mother being a xenolinguist - that's from me. I figure there had to have been some early linguistic influences on Han for him to be able to understand Huttese and Shriyyywook and to haltingly speak some of the latter. What happened to her is not in any canon I can find. I don't think Han's dad ever told him what happened. Maybe she went on a field trip to another planet and never came back, meeting with something dire.**

**Final word on Han's parents from the novel adaptation of Solo:**

"Han had memories of loving his parents long ago, but they were distant and fuzzy."

"'My dad worked the line at the CEC plant. Till he got laid off. He built these. He wanted to be a pilot, but..." The words trailed off, the memories growing cloudy as he recalled the images, felt the emotions powerfully, but couldn't articulate more...

"You and Pops close?"

Han shook his head."


End file.
